Tantrums By: Sarah

 I love the boy who’s internal alarm wakes him at 6:00 am everyday of the week regardless of what time his head hit the pillow the night before.  I love how the first thing he does when he wakes up, is come to me to say, “Good morning!” and then crawl into my arms asking to, “snuggle”. 

Isaac is my most affectionate child.  He loves to rub noses, give kisses, and he asks me to reach my hand back to him in the car so he can hold it.

Sitting folding clothes or watching a movie or something else sedentary and I’ll find myself under siege.  Isaac will have jumped on me, grabbing my face, kissing me all over.  He is full to the brim with a love and excitement for life and his family.

Isaac also tantrums.  He might be the king of tantrumers (If that is even a word).  The same boy who asks if he can scratch my back “softly” was the culprit in this story:

Isaac’s teacher praised him when I picked him up from preschool.  He had a GREAT day.  So on the way to pick up the girls from school we stopped at 7eleven and I gifted him his own bag of Cheetos and a blue Slurpee.  He was in heaven.  When the girls saw his spoils they, of course, wanted their own due rewards and so on the way home, I stopped at a different 7eleven because... I am a HUGE PUSH OVER.  The plan originally was for all of us to enter the 7eleven TOGETHER while Isaac amiably watched the girls choose and purchase their own Slurpees, with complete understanding that he’d already enjoyed his. 

I don’t know what dream world I was living in, but that is NOT what happened.  Isaac felt completely jilted.  He began one of his epic tantrums, so I handed the girls a 5-dollar bill and coolly explained to Isaac that he was on time out in the car and would be allowed out when he was calm and could use a “soft voice” and “nice words”.  I shut the van door and stood outside to keep watch over him.  He soon climbed into the front seat and began honking the horn repeatedly.  I was still calm, but I could feel my cool starting to melt.  I opened the door explaining, firmly, that he had to stay in his car seat, buckled up.  He refused.  So I scooped him up, which was the catalyst to something very ugly.  He went into full on raging bull mode:  screaming, snorting, and flailing about.  My calm and collected demeanor went from “beginning to melt” to full on steaming mad.  As I struggled with the wild boy, somehow two of his Cheeto dust covered fingers each ended up fish hooked into my nostrils, and, having finally found a solid hold on me, Isaac dug those cheesy fingers in and wouldn’t let go.  Through gritted teeth and with a scary devil-like voice I *asked * him to release my nostrils and sit down.  I think he realized that while, perhaps he had won a very small battle, he had started a war he could never win simply based on body size ratio.  He sat down, defeated and crying and I turned around to see a police officer standing behind me, watching the whole scene play out. 

Shocked, I gave an anxious laugh, brushing my tousled hair out of my face.  I vacillated between giggling, “Oh this?  This is nothing.   Just a little game we play called... Cheeto Man vs. Devil Mom.” or diving in my van and speeding out of there yelling, “You’ll never catch me copper!”  I settled on a jumpy, “Oh!  Hello!”

      

I tried to inconspicuously brush the Cheeto powder from around my nostrils while simultaneously trying to recall what coercive threats I had murmured in the midst of the mêlée.

The officer looked at me and laughed, saying something about how he knows how Isaac feels and that he feels like he needs a time out every morning when his alarm goes off...blah, blah, blah.  I don’t really remember exactly what he said as I was more concerned about him thinking I had a Cheeto snorting habit that might need a night in the slammer to fix.   

My girls finally exited 7eleven with their Slurpees, as the officer entered and I tore out of that parking lot like a bat out of Hades!  (While still obeying every traffic law).

Could this be the same little boy who woke up with an “I love you” on his lips, full of hugs and kisses?

That night, at bedtime, Isaac had a really hard time settling down.  He cried and cried and wouldn’t stop.  I finally asked him what the problem was and he responded, “My heart feels sad.  I want my heart to feel happy.  Will you fix it?”

Sometimes I look at Isaac and I imagine what it would be like to only be able to remember him.  What would I remember?  What would I forget?  And then I have to stop because it hurts too much. 

The truth is, what makes Isaac amazing, tender, and lovable is the same stuff that makes him frustrating, difficult, and exasperating.  His vigor and love for life is all balled up with his tendency to become angry and fight vehemently for what he wants and thinks he needs. 

So full of contradiction.  So full of highs and lows.  All emotions are full throttle.  Love, hate, rage, glee.  And while I don’t enjoy every second of his very dynamic personality, I do love every bit of who he is.

And as his momma, maybe I need to just take a breath and enjoy it completely, set aside the scary devil voice (most of the time) and just breathe all of him in, Cheeto dust and all.

 

An Ode to Ridiculous Parenting Ideas & an Apology to Jared… By Jaime

So, I called my sister-in-law, Jenny, the other day to tell her that I had a confession to make, something I had been feeling very guilty about…I told her, that for the last 3 years or so I had been holding a grudge against her youngest son, Jared.  What kind of adult holds a grudge against an innocent child?  Me…terrible, I’m aware! 

You know, you hear all the time before you get married, that you have no idea how hard it will be, and the first thing that pops into your mind is, “Not my marriage.  We are so in love.  We talk about everything, and so it won’t be hard for us!”  WRONG!  And then, even before you start having kids, you look at other mothers or families or just the rotten kids and think to yourself, “Not me…I will never do it that way!  Never bribe them, never give in to their tantrum just to escape humiliation.  My kids will never act like that in the first place!”  You’re an instant parenting expert from the 2 times you baby sat as a teenager.  WRONG!!!  Why do we never listen to the experienced?  Good grief, I don’t know, but back to my apology, which after this, will also be in writing.

Family before McKinley

Okay, so 4 years ago when my husband, Lincoln, was graduating from nursing school, his family came up to watch him graduate and celebrate with us.  His mom and dad came, and his sister Sarah came, and she had in tow, her 3 young kids and had also brought with her sister's (Jenny) 5 year old son, Jared.  At the time, Lincoln and I had Carter who was 4 and Nixon age 2.  So, of course we were complete experts already when it came to raising children…WRONG!  We decided to go out to dinner before the ceremony, so we all piled into Texas Roadhouse for dinner, there we were also joined by Lincoln’s cousin’s wife, Tiffany and her son Jonas who was also only about 16 months old.  In case you’ve been counting, this was not enough adults for this amount of very small children!  But, we struggled through.  We had some time before the ceremony began, and since Linc’s school was right next to a beautiful park, we thought it would be great to let the kids get some energy out before wrangling them in.

Jared, in the infamous "Grandma's Sweater" after the ceremony.

After being at the park only a short time, I notice that Jared, my mother-in-law and Sarah had disappeared.  I’m starting to panic that we will not be able to round everyone up in time to make it to the ceremony.  Then, Sarah appears, looking angry, amused, and bewildered all at the same time.  She tells me that Jared has pooped his pants, like REALLY pooped his pants (non-salvageable) and her mom was still in the bathroom cleaning him up with paper towels and water, mind you, this is a park bathroom if you’re trying to picture it.  When they finally emerge, poor Grandma…Jared is wearing a diaper and Grandma’s sweater around his waist!  And, to top it all off, he appears to be finding this hilarious!  Not the pooping part, just the ensuing ensemble.  I lost my mind!  All internally of course, but seriously, I thought, “What kind of 5 year old poops his pants in public and the does not even care that he is wearing Grandma’s sweater and a diaper!  My kids would NEVER do this!”  WRONG!

Dad, Nixon, Mom

So, fast forward past the stares we all received at graduation and it is now 4 years later, my kids are now 7, 5 and we have a 10 month old little girl named McKinley.  Nixon has begun Kindergarten and is loving it!  We knew his kindergarten transition would not be as easy as Carter’s, as he is NOT Carter.  Let’s just say, it has been poop filled, and I don’t really love dealing with poop!  He pooped his pants at Carters soccer practice, like filled his shoes with poop…I had to clean up a trail of poop from where we were sitting to the van, so that the other kids would not be stepping in my 5 year old sons poop! As I stooped to pick up each little Nixon nugget the embarrassment increased exponentially.  Did I mention I had just made a friend with one of the other soccer moms when this happened in front of both of us?  

Then, he pooped his pants the next day on his way to the bathroom.  We attributed all of this to his long days at school combined with the overwhelming excitement he was experiencing.  Then, we had a few days without an accident until open house night at school!  

McKinley: Hard to believe someone so cute, could make such a mess

My boys were so excited for us to be there, and as usual we were running a little late.  When we got out of the car we noticed that McKinley was in need of a diaper change.  I had 1 wipe in my bag…but I had wipes in the glove box!  They were dried out.  So, we went into the school to change her…Linc hands me the baby, I head into the restroom…no changing table.  Luckily my bag has an awesome built in changing pad, so I laid her on the floor.  As I go to lay her down, I discover poop all over me!  McKinley is covered in it as well.  Panic…I call from the bathroom that Nixon will have to come help me…he is not enough…luckily ONE lady took pity on me, wet my wipes at the sink and helped me with this insane mess while Nixon held McKinley’s hands above her head.  It took forever and a whole lot of ingenuity on all parts to clean this up, but at last it was done and I still had some clothes on, thanks to layers!  McKinley however was wearing an ill-fitting and wrong season dress that was all I had in the diaper bag.  We have still not been to either classroom.  We decide to go to Nixon’s first, since this is his first open house, and is practically shaking with anticipation.  I on the other hand am shaking with nerves and nausea, from carrying a diaper bag bulging with poopy clothes wrapped up in paper towels, it wreaked.  Then, I look down to discover “mud” on the knee of my jeans!  I might pass out.  This school is packed and I stink like poop!  I was not sure I would make it through that night.  I could tell no one wanted to be near me, although I assume most of them blamed my sweet baby girl for the smell.  I had to maneuver very carefully so I would not rub “mud” from my jeans onto others, but eventually we made it out!  Granted, this was not McKinley’s fault in any way, there has just been an insane amount of poop out of place lately!

Nixon

Now for the last bit…I go to pick Nixon up from school along with our friend Tylia.  I notice Nixon walking a bit funny, and looking a bit “lumpy”.  I decided I really wanted to be a patient mommy today and not look like a lunatic yelling at him.  After we dropped off Tylia, I asked Nixon if he would like to talk to me about the poop in his pants.  He very calmly said, “Well, there was someone in the stall, so I HAD to poop my pants.”  He said this as though it were the only logical thing to do.  When I asked him why he did not tell his teacher, he said that he had, but she didn’t do anything.  I calmly told him, “Bull crap you did!”  Turns out he had pooped his pants while in the bathroom after lunch and when he had been missing from the classroom for quite a while one of his teachers went looking for him and heard him in the stall, he told her he was going poop and apparently there was a great deal of flushing and shuffling going on, he eventually came out and although he smelled, they just figured he hadn’t wiped super well.  Can you imagine sitting through another hour of school with a load in your pants?  Again, why is this 5 year old not embarrassed beyond belief???  

There are so many other little pieces and feelings to this story, but I think you get the point.  I truly was not sure I was going to keep this particular child if he kept this up much longer.  We have all heard the saying “s@#$ happens” and I am here to testify that that is true. Forever now, when we drop him off in the morning he gets a “friendly” reminder not to poop his pants.  And, when we pick him up the first thing we say after, “How was your day?” is “Did you poop your pants?” And so I say, “Jared I am so sorry I ever doubted you would turn into a human being with sense.  I love you very much!” 

Has this taught me my lesson that all kids make crazy annoying terrible mistakes and there is no controlling it, just guiding and praying?  Yes.  Will I ever again ignore advice given to me, thinking I know better?  Most likely.

Circus Monkey By: Jennifer

1960 Pablo Picasso "Jacqueline"

I live a Picasso Life: a distorted mess of body parts splintering off into different directions; horns growing in places where horns shouldn't be growing; jagged, mismatched cubes stacked in precarious mayhem and really big, ugly feet. Let's not talk about the feet, I'm a little sensitive about the feet. I firmly believe that if Picasso had known me, I would have been his inspiration. I could have been the one to make him famous, but alas, the continuum of time separated us.

          Doing laundry is a never ending, eternal chore, and yet I still wear clothes. I yell at my kids to quit yelling. I mop my kitchen floor before an art project. Sunday, the day of rest, does not include a nap. Library books are found after they are paid for. I come home from exercising and eat a brownie for breakfast. I have gone through hours of painful labor and I still had to put those wretched maternity clothes back on. I have started a vacation with 6 kids in a car for 12+ hours expecting it to be 'fun'. Negotiating with a 3 year old. Negotiating with a 16 year old. Looking shocked when my son shows up to the dentist at 8 am with Oreo Cookies stuck in his teeth. Forgetting where I hid my secret stash of cookies so the kids wouldn't find them. Realizing my son found my cookie stash....right before going to the dentist. My 8 year old amputating the handles from my rakes and shovels, with an axe, in his quest to find the proper sword. All of my pots and pans swinging by purple yarn from our tree and my husband asking, “Soooo....what's for dinner?”

          Can you see the lopsided eyes? Can you envision the twisted nose? Can you feel the jab of the triangular elbows and knees? These are just a few reasons why I am crazy--errr, I mean cultured. Sometimes I feel like a circus monkey. A cultured circus monkey. Paint that Picasso.

1908 Claude Monet San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk

          In my frequent daydreams, I live a tranquil Monet Life. The colors are soft. They blend and slide together. My life glides and flows. It has that subtle splash of posh and elegance: yellows, pinks or purples. I skate and waft. I am the timeless classic: Audrey Hepburn. But, alas, I am not Audrey Hepburn and I certainly would not use words like glide,flow, or elegance to describe my life. I would use words like chaotic, fumble, bedlam, scurrying, maybe even a “little” messy.

I love little finger prints on my windows. I love singing in the car. I love peanut butter kisses. I love late night giggles. I love wiping sticky mouths. I love bedtime stories. I love helping with homework. I love rushed trips to the grocery store. I love holding hands with my husband. I love little heads resting on my shoulder. I love resting my head on my almost-grown-up son's shoulder. I love making lunches. I love date nights. I love finding stick-it notes on my pillow. I love dancing in the kitchen. I love family prayer. I love my my circus monkey life and I wouldn't trade it for the best of my daydreams.

I have laid my life in the hands of The Artist whose workmanship can create beauty out of lopsided eyes and twisted noses. He softens the jabs that come my way. He makes peanut butter kisses, sticky mouths and late night giggles that subtle splash of joy. This Artist loves me, even when my big, ugly feet stumble and trip. He makes me whole when the world is pulling me apart. And by some miracle He turns my Picasso Life into something so stunning, there isn't a paintbrush that could capture its beauty.

Lost Balloon By Sarah

For Audrey’s birthday, her cousin, Jillian, thought that Kate might feel badly about not getting any gifts so she bought her a light pink Mylar balloon decorated with cupcakes and the words, “Happy Birthday”.  Since we were throwing Audrey a surprise birthday party all birthday supplies were hidden in the garage along with the balloon for Kate.  In all of the hustle and bustle of birthday fun the balloon was forgotten and left in the garage until the next day.  

Kate cracks me up.  She is so cautious socially.  She is shy and calculates her risks carefully before opening up.  But put her on her scooter and she flies, no fear, no holding back.  She goes so fast and crazy that the scooter wanders all over the sidewalk, swaying dangerously left and right.  This particular scooter has three wheels, one in front and two in the back for stability.  Her weaving and wobbling always leave only the front wheel and one back wheel on the ground, leaving me waiting for a big spill.  The funniest part is how she ducks her head down, tucking her chin into her chest, closing her eyes and pushing as fast and as hard as her six year old legs will let her go.  I don’t know how she hasn’t gotten hurt driving blind like that, but somehow her guardian angels seem to keep up with her.  (Knock on wood). 

            On this particular day my van was in a shop about ½ mile from my house being repaired.  As we set off walking to pick up our van, the balloon was carefully tied to the handlebars of her scooter.  She rode a few paces ahead of me, stopping at each corner waiting so we could cross the intersections together.  Each time I caught up with her I’d hear bits and pieces of the story running through her head.  Inner monologue flowing out her lips.  I never really got the whole story, just little wisps of her creativity.  Once she whizzed by and hollered to her balloon, trailing along behind her , “Come on Isabel!  Keep up!”  I laughed to myself.  All things inanimate are alive through Kate.  Isabel, the balloon, accompanied us throughout the rest of our day’s busy activities until we pulled up to the house at the end of the day, ready to go inside for bathes and pajamas.  Kate, arm extended straight up, held onto just the tip of the balloon string exclaiming, ”Mommy!  Look at how high Isabel goes!”

            And then it was gone.  Up, up, up into the sky.  Kate yelled out, ”Oh, Daddy, get it!”  But it was too late.  It traveled with the breeze into the tippy top of our tree about 30 feet in the air.  And there it stuck within view, but out of reach. 

            Kate lost it.  This was nothing like a tantrum.  She didn’t just cry.  She grieved.  At one point she couldn’t even hold herself up anymore and fell to her knees begging me, “Please Mommy, please Mommy, please Mommy!  I just want it back.  Please get it back.”

            I looked up at the impossibility of her broken hearted request.  There was absolutely nothing I could do.  She continued in her misery.  Wailing.  Weeping. Deep wracking sobs of someone whose world had just fallen apart.  My husband (who hadn’t seen the earlier interaction between the girl and her balloon) raised his eyebrows and said, “This is a little ridiculous, don’t you think.” 

I smiled and responded, “Not to her.”  I scooped her up and held her as she pitifully kept softly repeating between brokenhearted sobs, “Please Momma. Please.  I just want it back.”

            Now, I know I have basically spent the last year living as a human sprinkler system with a malfunctioning timer, going off at irregular intervals for irrational reasons (with some rational ones mixed in), but her anguish was so real, so heartfelt, so truly sincere, I couldn’t help it.  I cried with her.  I kissed her sweaty forehead and every time she whispered, “I just want it back.”  I whispered, “I know, I know, hunny."

 And I thought of Miles.  I thought of Mark, Andrae, and Vivian.  I thought of my Uncle and Aunt and cousins and their lost daughter and sister, Emily.  I thought of my sister and brother-in-law and their deep disappointment over recent lost job opportunities.  I thought of all the people I have known in the past year who have suffered devastating losses that have turned their worlds upside down and left them unable to stand, fallen to their knees in despair.  And I thought how excruciating other people’s pain is to bare.  To watch someone else suffer and have no means to alleviate that pain is a personal hell. 

            In my darkest moments, I would describe the ache in my heart as a glass jar full of water, sealed tight and placed in a freezer, cracking as the water freezes and expands and exceeds the jars capacity.  My heart was broken and flooded by my own grief and the grief I saw in others.  In these darkest moments, I’d weep for all of them.  I still weep for them.

             The day Kate lost her balloon, I sat in her room with her on my lap, considering this thing, loss.  I considered my own helplessness, rocking her back and forth.  I desperately pondered over my role in the lives and losses of my friends and family, and I ruminated over if I was doing enough.  If only... If only I could reach up to the sky and return your lost balloon.  If only, if only, if only...  in the mean time you will have to live with the loss, and I will have to watch you.  I have no solution.  No fix.  All I have is comfort.  Arms to hold you, words to soothe.  And maybe sometimes just being there is enough, because Kate’s sobs subsided and she eventually relaxed against me.  

Kate

Audrey entered the room with a little grin.  She said she had a secret to tell me.  It was something about the “B-A-L-L-O-O-N” she spelled out in a whisper through partially parted lips.  She came real close to my ear and whispered, “Tomorrow, will you take me to the dollar store so I can buy Kate a new balloon with my birthday money?”  We never did replace the balloon, but knowing that Audrey wanted to was enough.  Kate, knowing I was there, ended up being enough.  Being there and wanting to take the pain away was enough.

Thank God for my children.  How they unknowingly and innocently teach me.  

Turning Point

Written October 12, 2013 By Sarah

One year ago, today was the last day I spent in my old life. 

After a family reunion for my side of the family my husband mentioned, “My family should be doing this type of thing.   There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be getting together like this.” 

Reunion Shirts

So he mentioned it to them, and by doing so, nominated himself organizer.  After months of researching and throwing out ideas and having the ideas considered and then reconsidered, after trying to coordinate schedules between many busy families, and after finally coming together on a destination and time, a Kelly Family Reunion was organized and excitedly anticipated.  John even designed T-shirts and had them silk screened.




I spent the days before busily preparing meat for pulled pork sandwiches and organizing games to keep toddler to grandpas entertained.  I grumbled about minor irritations that come when trying to keep 25+ people satisfied with arrangements, and then we were finally on the way. 

To be honest, looking back now, that first day is a blur.  Food, chatting, picking rooms in the hotel suite, being impressed with the posh high end bathrooms and bedding, cousins running, laughing, playing.  It was exactly what John wanted it to be.

Then October 13^th came.  The first day of the rest of my life. 

In the afternoon some went down to the pool and some stayed to watch the football game or nap.  Many of the details of that time down to the pool are sacred and private.  I will only say that Kate came to me concerned about a “boy she didn’t know sleeping at the bottom of the pool” and I went to investigate. 

It is amazing how many thoughts and realizations can pass through a person’s brain in a split second.

The realization that one of your worst nightmares has become reality is amazingly, horribly, surreal and I do not allow myself much time lost in the thought of that split second. 

In that moment I had an involuntary reaction.  Probably more involuntary than my heart beating.  I jumped into the water and retrieved the “sleeping boy”.  I only include this information because it is part of my experience that made that day a turning point in my life. 

Four-year-old Miles, my nephew, was life flighted to Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah.  The next 2 days felt like weeks stretched into months. 

Baby Isaac

Once, when Isaac was a brand new baby he contracted an eye infection.  Every time he woke up his poor little eye was sealed shut with gunk (and for a new born baby, that is many times during a day and night).  It would begin to heal and then come back with a vengeance.  I was suffering from the beginnings of a breast infection, recovering from a rather traumatic c-section where I lost a lot of blood, I was sleep deprived and trying to transition from a mom of two to a mom of three.  I was completely overwhelmed.  The eye infection was the proverbial straw on the camels back.    Finally, feeling completely powerless, one night I couldn’t take it anymore and I knelt down and begged my Father in Heaven to heal my baby’s eyes.  The need I felt was intense and real and it was something I could not do for myself.  The next morning his eye was completely clear and the infection never came back. 

It was like my heart had returned to that desperation a thousand fold, on my knees for the next two days, running between home and hospital.  I begged my Heavenly Father for another miracle.  I pleaded with Him. Completely out of control, I knew only He had the power.  I explained that this thing was too much.  Too much to ask of Miles’ parents.  Too much to ask of anyone.  As a family we prayed; we fasted; we cried; we waited and waited.  Until, finally, Mark and Andrae had to make the unimaginable decision to let their son go and to say goodbye. 

These three days, one year ago, have completely changed the way I see the world and the way I define my life.  I have questioned every thing I ever thought I knew and have spent many late nights and very early mornings trying to make sense of my new world.  On those nights, when sleep is dismissed by the tornado of thoughts raging in my head I get up, pull out my computer and I write it all down.   Once those thoughts are out of my head and on the screen (usually) I can sleep. 

Lately I have been contemplating why this is.  And I’ve decided to share some of these thoughts publically with my friends and family in the hopes that some of the conclusions I’ve come to in the past 12 months are actually lessons that God has taught me and would be of worth to you. 

I am not a writer.  Words do not flow for me or from me.  More than likely I will be doing more digging and wrestling than flowing, but I hope that you might get something from what I have to say.  If nothing else, at least I’ll be able to get some sleep.

(Here is a link to Miles' family's blog.  It is really beautiful and I think you'll really enjoy it.)